


Wavering Poet

by DaisyFloyd



Series: Pink Floyd Collection [5]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: David's such a sweetheart, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insecurity, Love, M/M, Romance, Short One Shot, Songwriting, Touching, this is the cheesiest thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFloyd/pseuds/DaisyFloyd
Summary: Roger feels insecure about his ability to write good lyrics.David reassures him during this lazy Saturday morning.
Relationships: David Gilmour/Roger Waters
Series: Pink Floyd Collection [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1283780
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Wavering Poet

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Thanks for checking out my story.
> 
> Before reading, please note that:
> 
> \- I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone mentioned in this story.  
> \- This work is entirely fictional.  
> \- This work does not accurately represent the real relationships of the people mentioned.  
> \- English is not my first language.  
> \- I've written this with much love. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“If you keep changing the words, you’ll never get it over with.”

Roger looks at David disapprovingly, and then his eyes return to the paper. He knows that, he knows he shouldn’t be such a perfectionist, but he can’t help it. It’s in his nature, it’s always been, and it will never go away. He sits resting his back on the bed’s padded headboard, with his little black book on his lap, and holding a pen that is almost out of ink. He’s been like this for a while already and he’s tired, but he’s made a promise to himself that he’ll finish those lyrics before Monday.

It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and despite the good climate Roger is wearing a sweater. After a long week recording, full of problems and arguments with sound engineers and businessmen from the industry, they definitely have the right to stay in bed past midday and relax. Neither likes to get up early anyway, and they’ve never given breakfast much importance either. The sheets are tangled and the duvet is on the floor, clear evidence of how they didn’t really care about their linen and were too lazy to worry about making the bed. If they were cold, they could just snuggle.

David lies next to him. He takes another drag on his cigarette, while still looking at the curtain moving. He’s almost naked, wearing nothing but his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt. Roger looks up from his book and gazes at him. Every time he sees David like this, his heart flutters. He gets distracted from his writing, and stares at his lover’s lips as he exhales the grey smoke.

“You worry too much, Waters.”

“You worry too little, Gilmour.”

The wonderful sound of David’s giggling reaches Roger’s ears, and he can’t avoid smiling. Roger watches him as he sits up and leaves the cigarette in the ashtray, on the bedside table. David runs a hand through his long, light brown hair, untangling it a bit. He then sits next to Roger, resting his back on the headboard as well, and looks at the black book to catch a glimpse of whatever is making Roger stress out this time around.

“Now I can’t decide between this verse and that verse.”

Roger’s finger slides across the surface of the yellowish paper, which is filled with angrily crossed out words and scribbles. He points to a five-word sentence at the top of the page, and then to the one right below it. He waits for Dave’s opinion as he takes a moment to read them. Pretty soon he’s back making eye contact with Roger, his attention starting to divert from the lyrics and focusing on his lips instead.

“There’s barely a difference.”

“Well, if you look at it so shallowly, you’ll never notice the nuances of anything.” Roger replicates stubbornly, mainly frustrated with himself for not being able to choose, this feeling showing in his voice. “Everything’s the same if you don’t look closely.”

David is used to getting scolded by him for every little thing he can be lectured on, and he’s always amused rather than angry about it. David considers it a fundamental part of his lover’s extravagant personality, something that, if missing, would make him less _Roger_. He gets closer, their noses only a centimetre away, as he half-closes his eyes, inclines his head and waits for Roger to give in.

Roger sighs, bringing a hand up to get a hold of David’s chin.

“Are you even listening?” He asks, frowning, but not mad. He can’t possibly get cross when David’s so close and gazing at him, so mellow and gentle.

“I can’t when you’re looking so tempting.” He responds in a low, attractive voice.

Roger, as David expected, finally gives in. As usual, as inevitable. His hand soon goes from his chin to his cheek, gently touching his beard. He brings him closer and starts a kiss that soon turns out to be, thanks to David’s input, soft, slow and sensual. He has a way of kissing that Roger finds unique, so resembling to the long, captivating solos he writes.

It was a giant leap to go from being so lonely to receiving this type of contact in a matter of months, and even though the whole experience could be intimidating for him, Roger wouldn’t go back to what his life once was. He’d rather die than remain in that cold loneliness that dominated his existence before, he’d rather live just one more day with David than an eternity without him.

When David pulls away, he enjoys that brief moment he always gets after French kissing Roger to see how lost and embarrassed he looks. He’s definitely not as experienced, and too insecure to play much into it, but he’s starting to let loose. The guitarist smiles, and gives him a peck on the nose.

“You’re hurrying when there’s no need to.”

“I want to get it done so you can start working on the music as soon as possible.” Roger says, his eyes going back to his book. He needs to avoid eye contact for a moment in order not to get overwhelmed, as he’s facing yet another one of David’s habits that he isn’t used to. He would usually never look at people in the eye, but with him it is just inevitable.

That had to be one of the things that initially caught him and made him fall into this trap. His eyes, as dumb and cliché as it sounds, there is _something_ about them Roger can’t describe with words. Having blue eyes is by no means special or extraordinary, but David gives them a meaning, a significance that can’t be found anywhere else. Noticing his sky-blue leers during the day, while patiently waiting to see his dilated pupils when the lights are dim at night, is one of those things that always makes Roger look forward to going back home.

“You should let your mind rest. It’ll allow you to think more clearly.”

David lies down on his back as he gives him that little piece of advice. Roger works up the courage to crawl to get on top of him, and rests his legs at each side of David’s hips. The little black book falls, neglected, to the side of the bed. The guitarist looks up, content and grinning. Roger wouldn’t dare to perform such a suggestive action if it weren’t because he feels safe and covered under the clothes he’s wearing.

“What do you know about writing lyrics, anyway?” Roger says haughtily. For a moment his insecurity seems to disappear, he’s imitating the façade he puts up every day to face the world. He pretends to be confident and arrogant, when behind closed doors he’s just the opposite. In private, he never thinks highly of himself, he only focuses on his flaws. This exasperates David, who makes a point to tell him he’s great every time the conversation comes up.

“I’m not _that_ bad.”

Roger laughs, and caresses David’s chest.

“You’re as bad writing lyrics as I am writing guitar solos.” He says, and sees David smile once again.

“If you put it that way, I can’t say you’re wrong.”

The bassist laughs and leans forward, his shoulder-length hair falls gracefully and almost touches David’s face. He proceeds to insult him calmly, knowing he wouldn’t ever be truly offended and they're just playing, then he gets up to look for his book. When he finds it, he gives it to David and lies down next to him.

“Just choose a damn line.” Roger mumbles as he rubs his eyes and pulls his hair back. He is suddenly reminded of how tired he really is, but he doesn’t regret it. He wouldn’t exchange loving David for an entire night for anything else in the world.

“Didn’t you just say I don’t understand their deep philosophical meanings?”

“Choose one randomly and rid me of having to do it myself, please.”

David opens the book, and skims through looking for the page Roger showed him previously. He finds it almost at the end, and reads the two verses again under his lover’s attentive watch. He then closes the book.

“I can’t decide either. They’re both beautiful.”

Roger knows that David considers him a poet, even though he himself begs to disagree every time he calls him that. It’s so sweet a term to describe him, but so imposing and grand that Roger doesn’t believe he will ever be able to be deserving of being categorised as such.

“I’ve got three pages of lyrics already. It’s too much.”

“If you want a twenty-minute long track, you know I’ve got no problem arguing with whoever to get what you want.”

“We’ve done that with _Echoes_ already.” Roger reminds him, even though that song is mostly instrumental and the one he’s coming up with has a lot more singing. “No one’s going to listen for twenty minutes to the same song yet again.”

“They will if it’s good. And your songs aren’t just good, they’re brilliant.”

David lies on his side to be able to see Roger’s cheeks as they turn red. David loves that awkward glance he gives him, which shows he’s never going to get used to being complimented. After so many years of being told his art is worthless by his mother, who still has an inexplicable amount of power over him even now that he’s an adult, it’s still quite rare for him to realise that his writings do have some value. David absolutely hates the fact that she can make Roger feel so insignificant with just a word, and that she got away with dominating him and shaming him for his passion for such a long time without anybody stopping her.

“The afterglow hasn’t worn off yet, I see.” Roger smiles and takes David’s right hand. He squeezes it, in an unspoken grateful response that contradicts his verbal downplay of his lover’s vaunting remark.

David laughs, not letting go of his hand. He loves this closeness, this lazy Saturday morning, to spend his time with him. He’s so proud to be able to call him his boyfriend. To have such a clever, thoughtful companion to share these moments with. Because even if he doesn’t see it, he’s the most creative, the most intelligent and talented person David’s ever met.

“You’re such a pessimist. I really mean it.”

“Kind of a nihilist, we may say.” He corrects his lover. “And no, you don’t. You just won’t admit my writing sucks because you care about my feelings, for some reason.”

Roger says it as if considering another person’s emotions is the strangest thing he’s ever witnessed, the most unimaginable concept. He was habituated to the cold carelessness of everybody around him before his guitarist came along and showed him what compassion meant. However, still to this day, he has trouble believing David when he sincerely praises his creations.

“I care about your feelings, but that’s unrelated to the fact that you’re a very ingenious writer.”

Roger sits up, his back to David, and looks at him over his shoulder.

“What do you want from me?” He asks, thinking that maybe David’s comments are just an attempt to entice him into giving in to him again. In reality, he wouldn’t mind to do it without all that mushy conversation taking place beforehand.

David sits up as well, and when he does, he hugs Roger from behind. He rests his head on his shoulder and whispers into his ear.

“I want you to accept my compliment.”

This sets Roger’s pulse racing. David can get overwhelmingly close in a second and act natural, and Roger’s not sure how. He doesn’t know when, or even if, he will get accustomed to his ways. He just hopes David doesn’t notice how violently his heart pounds in his chest, he doesn’t want to come across as too desperate.

“Alright. Compliment accepted.” He says, as he tries to push away a bit. David doesn’t let him go. “Happy now?”

“You’re not convinced.” David states, sternly.

“I need to get back to work.”

Before he can get up, David’s hands are already under his sweater.

“Babe, you’re truly a fantastic author.”

His touch is caring and soft, it feels amazing. It gives Roger goosebumps, and he can’t think of a coherent phrase to say. His touch, his voice, his presence. He can only blurt out his lover’s name, helpless and uncapable of anything else.

“David...”

The guitarist feels satisfied with his lover’s reaction, and adds on to it by kissing his neck. He would do anything to hear his name being pronounced like that, the spoken version of a love letter to his ears, by the only person he’s ever been genuinely in love with.

“You’re a poet. An artist.” He reassures him. “Don’t listen to her. She couldn’t recognise art when it's right before her eyes even if her life depended on it.”

Roger feels the need to touch him, too. He rubs David’s thigh, an up and down constant motion led by his desire to be close and his shyness to demonstrate it more explicitly. His fingernails could scratch his skin if he pressed harder, but he doesn’t.

“The- The label won’t like it.” Roger murmurs.

David kisses his neck again, and quotes:

“ _Which one’s Pink?”_

They both laugh, recalling the many times they’ve been asked that question. It clearly shows how little understanding of what the band means businessmen have.

“They don’t get it. They’ll never get it.” David affirms, as he continues to surround Roger’s torso with his arms under his sweater and making that skin to skin contact that he knows drives his poet crazy. “Don’t even consider what they’ll say. We’ll defend whatever you write, and if they don’t like it, we’ll look for a different company.”

Roger is feeling so many different emotions at the moment that he doesn’t know if he wants to continue denying what his boyfriend claims is true, get back to work and pretend this conversation didn’t happen, or cry his heart out. Because he’s never felt so wanted, so _loved_.

He recalls the beginning of his relationship with David. It wasn’t love at first sight by any means, in fact, it was more like hate. They would clash every time they had to debate about music, what they wanted to do with a song or album, and they had so many contrasting opinions they thought they would never get along.

However, one can never predict how life goes. Time passed and they couldn’t stop thinking about each other. Their arguments were fewer, and Nick and Rick noticed a clear change of the dynamic of their rivalry, which eventually turned into friendship. Their seduction game started months after, thanks to David, and even though Roger was doubtful at first he eventually grew to like it as well.

Later on they would laugh about how they ended up sleeping together on the first date. That was so out of character for Roger, who still to this day tends to be reserved and quiet most of the time, but he justified his actions by saying David was just too persuasive. During one of their late-night conversations almost a year after, a slightly drunk Roger confessed he had been desiring it for quite some time anyway and didn’t regret anything. David didn’t need to be drunk to admit he had been wanting it way before too.

Roger can’t resist and presses his lips on David’s yet again. David is happy he can get Roger to relax, to feel safe enough to show his love, knowing how difficult it is for him to handle affection. Short of breath, after a passionate kiss, Roger whispers:

“I love you.”

For an instant, he’s worried David won’t say it back.

If there’s something Roger hates, it’s the feeling of being vulnerable. He’s become so good at maintaining that strong, condescending persona whenever he’s under the world’s magnifying glass that he’s forgotten that he’s _allowed_ to show emotion. He’s been told by his mother that he’s too _sensitive_ so many times, that his brain just can’t fathom the idea that he has feelings. He’s tried to shun them for so long that he’s still coming to terms with the fact that _he doesn’t need to_.

David shatters this insecurity.

“I love you more”

Roger’s eyes glisten with tears, but he manages not to let them out. When David looks at him again, he notices.

“Do you accept my compliment now?”

Roger doesn’t look away this time around.

“Maybe I’m not that bad after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's awfully considerate of you to read my stories!
> 
> I'm simply astonished. What you've just read is the furthest I've written from my comfort zone. And I'm even more impressed because I actually like how it turned out. It's the first time I actually write this type of romantic contact, and I don't think it sucks. Hurray!
> 
> I would love to read your thoughts on it. I've got this huge headcannon that Roger's just an insecure person who acts all almigthy to hide it, but secretly he's a softie. And David reassuring him is just perfect. Don't know if this suits anyone else's vision but hey! I finally wrote it!
> 
> Thanks for stopping by. ♥


End file.
